File 409-Delta

The basement smelled like wet sandstone, flux core, and ozone. It was 3:17 a.m., the middle-of-nowhere hour when your town goes dormant, and the ground below feels silent. Elias Thorne adjusted the vernier dial on the Zenith Radio under the work light.

Normally, you'd get a bunch of static and radio noise on these frequencies. Here and there, Morse code signals or Spanish-language stations. But today he tuned into 104.9 kHz, a very low frequency. You cannot pick up a voice at this range on an analog radio. There was only clear audio.

There was no static at all. Just a steady metronome ticking inside some studio somewhere, and a woman's voice reading off what sounded like an archive file.

"File number 409-Delta. We have a case file on Mr. Thorne, Elias. Current status is unrecovered. Time of incident: 320 hours."

Elias stopped moving his hand on the dial.

"The audio is being fed to Field Retrieval Team Seven. Please make sure the target is still alive before entering. The target is currently at his workbench wearing a green wool sweater. He has a bit of nail polish on his left thumb. The target just held his breath."

His stomach dropped to his feet. He looked down at his thumb and saw some dried polish around the nail bed. His heart was pounding so hard it felt like it would explode.

"Target is showing signs of increased heart rate. He may be thinking this is a radio station coming from the neighbors on a lower-wattage frequency. He will now attempt to kill the signal by unplugging the device."

Elias jumped back from the table and yanked the thick plug out of the power source. The radio cut out with a dull whir, and its small yellow light faded to black.

The voice did not stop.

"He unplugged the radio at 318 and 40 seconds. For those repairing the Zenith Radio, know that our target is still convinced it's picking up a broadcast. Our target does not know that HE is the receiver. Node was planted in his auditory nerve during REM-cycle sleep, October 4th."

He felt a sharp pain shoot through the left side of his head. He rubbed his ear and heard the woman's voice come from within his ear, not from the box on his desk.

"It is now 319 hours. The target is trying to calm himself down. He is looking towards his crawlspace behind the furnace."

His eyes snapped to the darkness in the basement. Past the big rusty drum of his father's old coal furnace was a small opening into the crawlspace, an area he never used. A small hole in the dirt with cedar logs sticking out of the ground. It had been closed off ever since his dad passed twenty years ago.

The last three boards were missing, and there was nothing but darkness behind them.

"To all rescue crews, keep in mind: do not go and save him until our organism is full. It will take about twelve minutes for the organism to eat through bone and flesh. Rescue parties can enter the premises at 332 hours. Have tarps ready to transport the body, as well as four gallons of cleanser."

"Who are you?" Elias said to the radio. "What's back there?"

The radio kept playing, ignoring his question like it was on automatic.

"It is now 319 hours and fifty seconds. The target is asking questions that he already knows the answer to. He hears movement for the first time."

Something scuffed against the ground in his crawlspace.

It's not rats. It's something dragging its weight with joints. It's rubbing leather on the ground, and I smell sewer water.

Elias ran for the stairs, but his legs gave out on him. He grabbed onto the edge of the workbench as he fell, knocked over some jars, and knocked a can of cleaner onto his blueprint.

The clock above the oil tank clicked one time.

3:20 a.m.

"Our target is going to experience a final event at this time," she said, almost nicely. "Rescue crews, please remain on standby. This channel will close in five seconds. Four."

Something was standing up in the dark behind him, blocking the dim light from the staircase.

"Three."

I feel a cold wind blow across my neck.

"Two."

A loud crack filled the room. Then silence.